A Time of Grey Rain
by Helena Larkin
Summary: Caught in a rain storm on the way to Henneth Annun, Frodo becomes ill
1. Default Chapter

Title: A Time of Grey Rain  
  
Author: Helena Larkin  
  
Rating: PG  
  
Summary: Frodo gets caught in a rain storm after being captured by Faramir, and becomes ill.  
  
Story Notes: No sex, slash, profanity, graphic medical detail, or violence. Contains hurt/comfort, and may become slightly more medically graphic as the story develops. I am aware that the distance between Henneth Annun and where the hobbits were captured is somewhat shorter in the canon, but I have altered it for the purposes of this story. Please forgive any errors as the computer's spellcheck is not working, so there may be typos.  
  
Disclaimer: The characters, places, and story of The Lord of the Rings are the property of J.R.R. Tolkien and consequently of the Tolkien Estate, with select rights by Tolkien Enterprises. This piece appears purely as fanfiction and is not intended to claim ownership of Tolkien's work in any way.  
  
Thank you very much to everyone who reviewed "To Soothe". I greatly value your kind encouragement and support.  
  
  
  
A Time of Grey Rain  
  
  
  
They are curled up in a small wretched heap on the hard ground, huddled in their shimmering grey cloaks. Still blindfolded, they have somehow found one another's hands in the darkness, and the larger, sturdier one - Samwise Gamgee - seems to be stroking and comforting the smaller, more delicate one. This one is Frodo Baggins, or so he says, a curious mix of defiance and frailty, clinging to his companion's hand as though he were drowning.  
  
We untied their hands and arms when we halted for the night, allowing them to lie down and then binding their ankles instead. Faramir, son of Denethor will take no chances with these two. The little one, Frodo, was shivering convulsively - either with cold or with a horror of my touch, as though I were repugnant to him. W  
  
hen I saw the raw, red marks on his wrists my heart clenched. Their wrists are so small, fragile as the legs of tiny birds in springtime. I could snap their bones with my hands. I did not like to see blood on Frodo's skin. If I were to snap their little wrists my father would probably be quite impressed.  
  
It surprised me to feel pity. After all, I am Captain of Gondor, and ought surely to remain strong. I ought not to be moved by such despicable, effeminate notions as pity. Denethor used to twist our wrists to teach us to keep silent under torture.  
  
We live in dangerous times, he sometimes said. If we cried out he would beat us; if we were silent he would twist harder. Probably the worst thing is that he said it was for our own good, and for the good of Gondor. To be strong.  
  
Surely even my father would see that they are pitiable, particularly Frodo, who is tiny and thin, his ribs jutting out so much that I perceive their narrow ridges even through what must be three or four layers of clothing. Spies or no, the halflings are not fitted to journey in these harsh lands. It is clear from the contents of their packs that they have been surviving on Elvish waybread and a little water - it is those thin white wafers that have brought them this far without sickness, starvation or even death.  
  
Whilst I discuss our tactics for the morrow with some of the other officers; and survey the bleak landscape of barren rocks and low grey sky, a chill drizzle begins to fall. It does not bother us at first - sheltered as we are behind some of the larger boulders; but the wind picks up, and soon we are sodden and wind-whipped, the cold rain like sharp knives penetrating our clothes, soaking our hair.  
  
"Let us journey to Henneth Annun. No rest can be found here." I tell the men, and we prepare quickly, gathering weapons and equipment with the speed of long practice. Our lands are prone to unpleasant weather and sudden storms. I notice the halflings clinging together, looking quite miserable and frozen. Calling to Sarador and Telmir, two of the most trustworthy soldiers I posess, I request that they carry the little ones - it is perhaps another three hours of travel, and they are not only exhausted but wet and cold. I do not wish to bind their hands again, nor to show unnecessary cruelty: already they fear me, Frodo cringing back as I pass.  
  
When we reach Henneth Annun, I ensure that the halflings are deposited in a corner, and I reconvene the discussion with my officers. After about half an hour, however, Sarador apears at my side.  
  
"Captain, that little halflin' looks right sickly - me an' Telmir think as maybe you should take a look at him."  
  
"What is wrong with him, Sarador?"  
  
"I don' know sir, but he don't look at all well, an' Telmir said as I should fetch you sir."  
  
So I go with him to where Frodo and Samwise have been placed. Frightened blue eyes look up at me from where Frodo is lying propped in Sam's arms - evidently one of the men has removed the blindfold, yet I feel a pang of remorse for not having ordered this myself. His breathing does sound quite odd - laboured and wheezy, and his face is white as new parchment. I gently press my hand to his forehead, ashamed that he flinches uncontrollably at my touch. He is quite hot and his skin feels dry.  
  
I meet Samwise's gaze, and he stares back at me accusingly.  
  
"You oughtn't to have done it sir, and that's the truth." His voice trembles. "Mr Frodo's always been delicate, but we was doing all right sir, we really were. Nice and easy, letting him rest, keeping him dry. And now he's ill again and hurt, and if he don't get well soon we'll all be ruined Mr Faramir, we will indeed."  
  
He has been speaking fast, almost frantically, but a light touch to his hand from Frodo and instantly his eyes drop to regard the small form in his arms: Frodo gives a tiny shake of his head and the other halfling falls silent, gently stroking back the dark curls from Frodo's hot brow.  
  
I am momentarily at a loss: the temperature is not very high, merely unpleasant and debilitating, rather than dangerous, but it may worsen - by tomorrow Frodo may be gravely ill. And what can I do? We have little provision here for nursing the sick. A tiny, precious, supply of dried athelas, some teas and a little honey; as far as supplies for treating illness are concerned, this is our limit. We have bandages aplenty for the treatment of wounds sustained in battle, these being frequent, and we are experienced in their treatment, but for this, for Frodo. I truly fear that there is little I can do for him.  
  
"Sam," I say, keeping my voice stern and calm with an effort, "you mentioned that Frodo has been ill before - have you any advice or experience that you may share with me. I fear I have little experience in the treatment of the sick."  
  
"Well sir, he's had pneumonia before, and that bronchitis more than once, as well as fevers and chills enough for six hobbits. And that's not even mentionin' the scarlet fever, an' the measles that he had at Brandy Hall, tha' sort of thing. Mostly I think he just needs keepin' real warm and quiet, then as he needs them, we could give him things he's used to - kinsfoil tea, maybe ginger if he feels too sickly, willow to ease the breathing. Have you got any of them things here sir?"  
  
"Not much, we have some supplies, but hardly enough to bring him through a serious illness."  
  
There is a faint whimper, and Frodo shifts in Sam's arms. When we glance down at him he is paler than ever, and after a moment he starts to cough, a wet, harsh sound that shakes his entire body.  
  
  
  
To be continued - Reviews are very welcome! 


	2. Chapter 2

Story Notes: No sex, slash, profanity, graphic medical detail, or violence. Contains hurt/comfort, and may become slightly more medically graphic as the story develops. (I hope to include vomiting in Part 3!) Please forgive any errors as the computer's spellcheck is not working, so there may be typos. Disclaimer: See Part 1  
  
Thank you very much to everyone who reviewed - I appreciated your lovely comments!  
  
  
  
A Time of Grey Rain by Helena Larkin  
  
Part 2  
  
The coughing is a shock, galvanising me into movement and plans and ideas. Warmth, nourishment, rest. He is soaking, shivering, pressed close against Sam's warmth. I suppose that the larger halfling must have retained more heat in spite of the rain. Frodo needs clothes, and I go to my own pack to fetch a soft old shirt and wool tunic.  
  
Sam gently removes Frodo's clothes, and the little one lies back wearily to permit his servant to tend him. He is quite startling thin - worse than I had anticipated. I am ignorant of their errand, but I am surprised he can walk at all, he looks so frail. It seems to me that the slightest pressure would break that translucent skin, shatter him like precious elven glass. So Sam, very, very tenderly undoes his thin garments, and slips off the exquisitely fine mail shirt - dwarvish work, unless my eyes deceive me, and the most beautiful I have seen in years - he wears beneath them, carefully dressing him in the shirt, wrapping him in the large tunic: my clothes seem ludicrously big on the little body, he is almost drowning in fabric.  
  
The sturdy Samwise, also, looks rather weary and pale, I notice. He does not think for a moment of his own comfort, preoccupied with settling Frodo so that he is secure, tucking the loose folds of the tunic around him. Yet I know that he must be very tired and wet, probably very cold. I myself am wet through with the rain, which shows no signs of clearing.  
  
When I look out at the countryside there is only the lowering dark and the constant quiet thrumming of rain on earth. I wish now that I had not bound their hands. They are very brave, even to be here, and I turn back with a smile, greatly wishing to reassure them.  
  
Frodo is nestled against Sam, and Sam's head is bent over to listen to Frodo whispering in his ear. Sam, I think, has the appearance of one who has been used to eating far better than he now can - a strong frame, apparently quite large for a halfling (just as Frodo is too small), yet shrunken with cruel hunger and unprecedented exercise. I want to feed them. I want them to rest and remember me as a kind man. And part of me wants to tell them of the white city, and my father's love and cruelty, and my visions. They seem so young, but something - in Frodo's eyes, perhaps - makes me think that here is someone who would understand, who would not only love my tales but comprehend them.  
  
"Samwise you must rest also. It will not help your master if you fall ill." I beckon Sarador, and send him to fetch some more dry clothes for Sam to wear. When both halflings are dressed, I take Frodo - who now appears to have fallen into a restless doze - in my arms, leaning him against my chest, and carry him to a low bed, Sam trotting anxiously at my heels. I place Frodo, slightly propped up, in a nest of pillows and worn, soft, woolen blankets - as comfortable as possible - and Sam curls up at his side.  
  
Sarador and Telmir return with wooden cups of warm milk sweetened with honey - what good fortune! I had forgotten that when we slew the wild men this morn I had ordered that such livestock as survived should be brought here. Sam places a cup to Frodo's lips, coaxing him to sip a little before drifting back into sleep. He then gulps his own milk and slips an arm around Frodo - to protect him? There is little he could do against my men if I were hostile and wished them ill. I think he wishes to comfort Frodo as he sleeps.  
  
He so clearly cares, he is so gentle, that I am once again overcome with shame at how I have treated them. They never deserved such roughness or suspicion from me. So instead of sleeping, I fetch a chair and sit watch over them, dozing, waking often to check Frodo's temperature and breathing. The fever is high, but does not appear to be rising; Frodo wheezes harshly with each breath.  
  
It is very late when he starts suddenly to stir and whimper.  
  
"Bilbo. B-Bilbo, where are you? I. I'm afraid." Scarcely more than a whisper. "G-G. Gandalf?" More firghtened now. A gasp, and I think he is awake. Then he starts to whimper faintly into the pillow. I hesitate to approach: in my guilt, in the rising of tender feelings long suppressed, I long to comfort and hold and stroke him. I very much want to be gentle to this little creature, so much in my power. Yet I know he will be frightened of me.  
  
But then there is a soft sob. And another. And I am gathering him into my arms and am suddenly. all tenderness, rocking him as he cries. I lean back against the pillow and he sobs breathlessly into my shoulder. I stroke his hair, which is very soft and dark, dark as the rain persistently, insidiously blackening our land.  
  
The room is dimly lit with several candles, and he lifts a flushed face, blue, fever-bright eyes, to my own. His voice is saturated with tears, they stain his face.  
  
"I. I want. m-my mother." He gulps and presses his hot wet face to my neck, like a child. I know the halflings are not children - it is exhaustion, fever, terrible strain, that calls this admission of what he would surely term weakness, not inherent childishness. I think he would be terribly ashamed to speak to me thus in any more normal circumstances. Their stature is small but I know they do not lack dignity. He is curled close to me in the blankets, sleepy, eyelids fluttering with tears; and I suddenly wonder how often he has had this thought and been too brave to express it, how often he silently longs for a mother who must, it seems, be long dead, and far beyond his reach, even in this darkened world.  
  
To Be Continued. As ever, reviews are very welcome - I will continue writing without them, but they certainly give life and impetus to my work!  
  
In Part 3 - what exactly is wrong with our little hobbit? Will he recover easily? (Probably not.) 


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